


Sherbert and Sodomy

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-25
Updated: 2007-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An extended metaphor in five acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherbert and Sodomy

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published in _Military/Intelligence_. I owe Rachael Sabotini a huge debt of gratitude, because she's the one who helped me figure out why my original story wasn't working and suggested I go for metaphorical over literal with my theme.

**Palaestra**  
The outermost portion of the Roman bathing complex, the _palaestra_ is an outdoor gymnasium where patrons engage in various ball games and exercises.

~

The doors slid open and John stepped through into the large circular room, McKay right on his heels. "Good enough?" he asked.

McKay looked around. "The padded floor is a nice touch; it reminds me of something out of one of the more recent Trek franchises," he said. "We're what, about two miles from the occupied sections of the city?"

John nodded, even though he was sure McKay knew exactly how far out they were. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, yes," McKay waved him off, "that's a yes."

Finally. It had taken him nearly a month of arguing with McKay and searching the city in his off hours, but it looked like perseverance was going to pay off. Sure, he could've just ordered McKay to cooperate, but he was pretty sure that would have been more trouble than it was worth. John tucked his gym bag into one of the open-fronted cubicles along the far wall. "So, how much training did you get before we left?"

"This really isn't necessary, Major—"

"Yes it is, McKay. Do I tell you how to do your job?" He didn't wait for McKay to answer because he had a feeling that there might be a reasonable argument there. "Shut up, put your bag away, and answer my question."

McKay glared at him, but put his bag in a cubicle and moved into the center of the room to stand opposite John. "I want to be very clear that I'm here under duress. All of the scientists had to attend a four-week boot camp at the SGC in order to qualify for the mission; I can fire a gun with reasonable accuracy, use a grenade without blowing myself up, and defend myself credibly when unarmed. I don't _need_ additional military training."

John didn't say anything, but he looked pointedly at McKay's right arm, at the spot where a fresh scar was hidden under the long sleeve of McKay's sweatshirt, and raised an eyebrow. He knew he risked it being seen as a cheap shot, but he needed McKay to understand how important this was.

McKay's mouth tightened into a thin, crooked line. "I see," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Fuck. He really wasn't trying to put McKay on the defensive; he'd just been trying to make a point. Badly, apparently. He took a deep breath. "You handled yourself well, Rodney," he said quietly, willing McKay to accept his sincerity. "Things could have gone a hell of a lot worse with Kolya." He waited for McKay to open his mouth to reply, maybe to argue, before continuing, "But I don't want you in that position again. If a little training was enough to keep you alive, then more can only be better."

"And this has nothing at all to do with the fact that I gave Kolya the information he wanted." If anything, McKay was even more tense, his posture more defensive, and that wasn't going to get them anywhere. John had to get him to unbend.

"You know—" he tipped his head to the side and looked thoughtfully at McKay, "if you were half as good at unarmed combat as you are at sarcastic repartee, you'd be a force to be reckoned with."

It worked. McKay snorted and relaxed a little, so John took a chance and said, "He put a _knife_ in your arm and that pisses me off. I prefer my team members unperforated, thanks." That really was an understatement; when Kolya had started threatening Weir and McKay, John had barely been able to think about anything except killing all of Kolya's men, one by one, until he'd worked his way up to the man himself.

"Imperforate." John frowned at the apparent non sequitur and McKay continued, "You prefer your team members imperforate. Though there are some connotations of that statement that I find very disturbing." McKay took a deep breath and his shoulders slumped slightly, his expression turning from obstinate to resigned. "In any case, you've managed to overcome every objection I could come up with. You've dragged me to some kind of Ancient gymnasium on the far side of the city, where I can be humiliated without an audience—and thank you for that small mercy, by the way. So, what now, Major?"

John stepped in close and took McKay's left wrist in his right hand. "Now you show me the things you _do_ know and I'll figure out a training schedule to teach you the things you don't. You know basic releases, right?"

"Oh, please," McKay said, twisting his arm quickly out of John's grip and then sidestepping to avoid the grab John made for his other arm.

For someone who'd only gone through what John tended to think of as "egghead basic"—the SGC's lightweight version of AFBMT—McKay was, surprisingly, not too terrible at unarmed combat. He still had a lot to learn, and John made mental lesson plans as they went along, but really it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He finally called a halt to the sparring after half an hour, figuring that they could extend the lessons as McKay's skills and endurance improved.

"See," he said, digging through his bag for a towel and feeling absurdly pleased at McKay's competence, "that wasn't so bad, was it?" He wiped his face with the towel, and then grabbed both gym bags and slung the straps over one shoulder.

McKay had dropped to the floor and was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his right arm cradled across his chest. "Right," he said, panting. "Not so bad. I can't decide if that outlook makes you a sadist or a masochist, Major."

John laughed and offered McKay a hand up. "A realist, maybe?"

"Screw realism," McKay said, letting John pull him to his feet, and John noticed that he was still favoring his right arm. "I'm all about the artifice."

"Well, then, let's go get you something from the mess," John said, handing McKay his bag and heading for the door. "At least half the things they serve are fake."

~ * ~ * ~

**Apodyterium**  
After exercising, patrons move to the _apodyterium_ , or changing room, where they prepare for the baths themselves.

~

John hesitated for nearly five seconds before ordering Ford, Teyla, and Markham to the crashed Wraith ship to collect Abrams and Gall's bodies. In the end, it was the way McKay's hands were shaking that determined which responsibility he'd shirk. He couldn't do anything more for the two dead scientists—he'd already failed them—but he could at least do better when it came to McKay.

Once they were alone, he nodded at the control panel McKay was crouched in front of. "You need any help with that?"

Without looking up, McKay shook his head. "There's not much you can do," he said. "Unless, of course, the Wraith happened to let you watch while he re-routed the shield protocols."

"Afraid not."

McKay tilted his head and squinted up at John. "Then sit down before you fall down, Major."

It sounded like a really good idea, even if it was a little more difficult to accomplish than it should've been. Earlier, adrenaline had done its job, sharpening his reactions and dulling his pain. The burn of the bullet graze and the ache of his ribs had just been low-level annoyances while the Wraith was still a danger to John's team. Now, though, when he moved wrong the pain in his right side was almost unbearable; McKay froze at the gasp John didn't quite manage to stifle, then very deliberately went back to what he'd been doing. His hands were still shaking, John noticed.

Cautiously, John leaned back against the jumper, propping his P90 across his knees and focusing on not making any sudden moves. With luck, they still had a few hours before nightfall; that should give McKay plenty of time to get the jumper's shield deactivated so they could go home. And even in the worst-case scenario, they could always spend the night in Jumper Two and finish the job in the morning. It'd be a little cramped with five of them, but it would be far from the worst night John had spent in the field; at least there wouldn't be hostiles shooting at them now.

"The Wraith didn't kill him," McKay said suddenly, interrupting the flow of John's thoughts.

"Huh?" And yeah, it wasn't the most brilliant response, but he was tired and coming off an adrenaline high, and this was one of those—admittedly infrequent—times when McKay wasn't making any sense.

Another one of those sideways, squinting looks, like McKay was trying to decide if John was...something. Worthwhile? More than just a dumb flyboy? Human, maybe? John had thought he was starting to get a handle on how McKay's mind worked, what his expressions meant, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Gall," McKay finally said, having apparently decided John met his mysterious criteria. "The Wraith feeding off him wasn't what killed him."

John's heart sped up, a hint of adrenaline shooting through him to tingle in his fingertips. There was no way that statement could be good. His gut instinct was to press the issue, to demand that McKay explain himself, but his gut had already been wrong once today, so he made the effort and kept his mouth shut, watching silently as McKay went back to working on the jumper's shield controls.

His patience was rewarded a minute later when, without taking his eyes off the control panel in front of him, McKay continued in the same uncharacteristically soft tone, "He was positive he was dying, and I wouldn't leave him by himself, even though I wanted to go help you." More silence, then, "I should never have given him the damn gun." And suddenly it was crystal clear to John what had happened after he'd left the Wraith ship.

"It wasn't your fault," he said instantly. He'd had to reassure people in all kinds of situations over the course of his career—the shock of seeing death up close for the first time was something no one was ever really prepared for, whether or not they'd been the one to pull the trigger—but this was the first time he'd ever dealt with this particular scenario. "You can't take responsibility for something like that, Rodney."

Now McKay turned to look at him. "Easy for you to say; you weren't there," he snapped, accusation coming through loud and clear.

John wanted to snap back, to defend his own choices, but he suspected that was what McKay wanted. He was spoiling for a fight, and John wasn't going to give it to him. It would be all too easy for McKay to retreat back behind the protective mask of hostility and sarcasm. Easy, but probably not particularly healthy.

Instead, he said, "No, I wasn't. That doesn't change the fact that Gall made his own choice. It isn't your fault."

"I should have—"

"Should have what?" John interrupted. "You should have been able to read his mind? Are you telepathic? Or maybe you're a trained psychologist."

McKay frowned at him. "Of course not."

"Then what should you have done? What _could_ you have done?" he pressed.

After a long moment, McKay shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know what, but I just feel like I should have done _something_."

John caught his gaze and, willing McKay to believe him, said, "There was nothing you could have done." When McKay finally nodded, John continued, "And you saved my life. Thank you."

For a second McKay looked taken aback, then it was like everything and nothing had simultaneously changed, and McKay flashed a small smile at him. "Yes, I noticed that. It's getting to be a habit. You shouldn't rely so much on me, you know. Eventually you're going to need to stand on your own two feet, Major."

John couldn't help but laugh, even though it hurt like hell when he did. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

~ * ~ * ~

**Tepidarium**  
The first of three bathing rooms, the _tepidarium_ contains a lukewarm bathing pool.

~

The service had been simple, with Weir and McKay each standing to say a few heartfelt words about the men and women killed by the nanovirus, and John couldn't help thinking how glad he was that none of the military personnel had died this time; he'd be happy if he could live out his life without ever giving another eulogy.

He'd come close, though—too close—to being up at the front of the room today, struggling for something to say, with all those eyes staring at him, knowing that all those people were relying on him to keep them safe. It was a responsibility he never asked for, a millstone around his neck. He took another drink, hissing as the burn slid down his throat; they really needed to get some better booze.

Or maybe just have fewer memorial services.

The sight of Dr. Zelenka, hovering at one side of the room and surrounded by his fellow scientists, pushed John out of his reverie, reminding him that the situation was so far from being all about him that he really wasn't in the picture at all. On the opposite side of the room, Ford was clutching a mug of the Athosian rotgut and looking well on his way to falling-down drunk.

Before he'd taken more than a few steps in that direction, though, two marines had closed in on Ford as smooth and synchronized as if they were running a combat simulation. John kept moving, not sure whether he should be worried or reassured at their actions.

"Hey, El Tee." Stackhouse distracted Ford from the left while Markham slipped the drink out of his right hand and set it on the low table behind them.

Markham said, "Let's get you back to your quarters, sir." He pulled Ford's arm over his shoulder and slipped his own arm around Ford's waist, Stackhouse mirroring him on the other side. As they started toward the door, an unresisting Ford between them, Markham looked up and his gaze met John's, a glint of protectiveness showing through. John just nodded, glad to see that Zelenka wasn't the only one who had people watching his back.

Reassured that Ford would be well taken care of, John went back to looking around the room. He took another drink, then hissed again because somehow he'd forgotten in the last five minutes just how bad it was.

"I thought about getting completely trashed," McKay said from where he'd suddenly appeared at John's elbow, and maybe it was time for John to put down his own mug because he hadn't even noticed McKay's approach. "But I decided that it would kill far too many of my incredibly valuable brain cells."

What the hell, John thought, tossing back the last of his drink. "So you're a teetotaler for the sake of the expedition?" he said, letting a teasing note creep into his voice. "I wouldn't have pegged you as being that selfless, Dr. McKay. What's next, a vow of chastity for the sake of the concentration of the women of Atlantis?"

McKay snorted. "It looks like Lieutenant Ford isn't the only one who's been overindulging tonight. I think it's probably bedtime for you, too, Major. Come on," he said, grabbing John's elbow and steering him toward the door, and it was on the tip of John's tongue to say something lighthearted, something _flirty_ back, but McKay's expression made him stop.

"Yeah, okay," he said instead. "I can make it on my own. I'm not that impaired."

A long, measuring look later and McKay let go of his arm, leaving John feeling oddly bereft. "If you say so," McKay said, shaking his head. "Don't blame me if you end up dancing naked in the hydroponics lab, though."

John fought back what would absolutely not have been a giggle and held up three fingers. "Scout's honor. I'll be fine."

"You? Were never a Boy Scout," McKay muttered just loud enough for John to hear—intentionally, John was sure—as he turned and headed toward his own room, leaving John alone in the corridor.

He really wasn't that drunk, just feeling warm and companionable and more relaxed than he had in several days. He made it back to his quarters without incident, yawning as the door closed behind him. Leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor and his comm on the nightstand, he crawled into his bunk and was almost instantly asleep.

_They're standing in one of the generator rooms, McKay with his back to the naquadah generator. "You're only going to have thirty seconds once you release it before it explodes," he's saying. "You need to get as far away as you can." Behind him, the generator is glowing brighter and brighter, and John can see that it's nearly reached the point of critical overload._

_John tries to grab McKay's arm, tries to drag him out of the room, as far away from the nuclear explosion as he can, but McKay isn't budging, and now John can hear that the low background hum is rising in pitch. He pulls harder, but it's like McKay's an immovable object, anchored in place more firmly than if he were a steel beam welded to the spot._

_The glow is so bright now, and the noise is an earsplitting whine. Knowing it's stupid and useless, John still does the only thing he can do, throwing himself between McKay and the generator, trying to shield McKay with his body. The flash of the nuclear explosion burns white-hot through his eyelids and...._

John sat up in bed, his heart racing. Numb fingers fumbled for his comm for a second before he finally got it on and activated. "McKay?" he said, waiting for the space of two breaths before letting himself start to panic. "Rodney?!"

"Major?" McKay's voice was low and sleepy in his ear and he finally thought to look at his watch: 0400. An instant later McKay sounded more awake, asking, "Is there a problem?"

 _Yeah,_ John thought wryly. _I had a bad dream._ He dragged one hand down over his face, feeling more than a little stupid. "No, no, nothing like that. Just…I'm glad you're okay, Rodney, that's all."

There was an odd silence, and then McKay said, "Um. Thank you. Good night, Sheppard," and John's heart sped up again, but this time it was accompanied by an ache in his chest.

"Night."

~ * ~ * ~

**Caldarium**  
The _caldarium's_ sauna-like atmosphere and hypocaust-heated pool makes it the hottest of the three bathing rooms.

~

"What the fuck is your problem, McKay?" John hadn't really meant to say it—had been priding himself on his ability to ignore McKay ignoring him, in fact—but the way McKay had just brushed past him in the corridor, back tense and jaw set, had pushed his buttons in a way nothing else had.

McKay stopped, then turned around very slowly. "Excuse me?" he said evenly, one eyebrow raised in a way that might have seemed genuinely inquisitive to someone who didn't know him as well as John did. "Did you just ask me what _my_ problem is?"

"Yeah," John said, because it was pretty much too late to back down now, even if he was already regretting having said anything in the first place. "Yeah, I did."

"My problem," McKay said, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over his chest, "is you and your raging hormones, Major. Your inability to keep it in your pants." John opened his mouth to tell him just exactly how much it was _none of his goddamn business_ who John chose to fuck, but McKay kept going, barely taking a breath, "I thought we'd developed something, some kind of a, a rapport wherein we trusted one another, but apparently not. And as long as we're having this conversation: I quit. Find someone else to take off-world with you, because I'm not about to trust my life to someone who doesn't trust me and my judgment in return."

Before John could pull himself together enough to respond, McKay had turned on his heel and disappeared into a transporter.

And that was just fucking great. Exactly what John needed at this very moment. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Fine. If McKay wanted to be an ass about it, then let him. He wasn't the only scientist in Atlantis; he wasn't even the only scientist who had experience with off-world missions.

Back in his office, John started pulling up the personnel files.

Zelenka hated going off-world; John reluctantly crossed him off his mental list. Sure it would piss McKay off if his right-hand man had to spend half his time away from the labs, which was a bonus as far as John was concerned, but he was pretty sure Zelenka wouldn't go for it.

Kusanagi had the ATA gene, and she was smart enough—nearly as smart as McKay or Zelenka, even—but she lacked confidence in herself and her abilities. Plus, John had a hard time imagining her handling a 9mm, let alone a P90, and hesitation in the field could be fatal to the whole team.

On the other hand, while it was also likely that Kavanagh knew what he was doing, he was such an arrogant ass that John would probably end up killing him himself, saving any hostiles the trouble. Bad idea.

He skimmed Simpson's file. Apparently she was an accomplished marksman—she'd placed three years in a row in the Nationals at Camp Perry—and had earned black belts in two separate martial arts. Promising, especially for a civilian. John took a drink of his rapidly cooling coffee and frowned as he tried to picture her, tried to remember which of the many scientists she was. Blonde, he thought, but the rest was a blank. A couple of quick keystrokes brought up her picture, which refreshed his memory and made him groan at the same time. With the visual there in front of him, he remembered Simpson. She was the one who talked. Constantly. No way was he taking her off-world.

Which left him with...Corrigan. Not a bad guy, definitely, and one who'd already been going out regularly with various off-world teams, so he had field experience that many of the other scientists lacked. If it weren't for the fact that he had half a dozen allergies and seemed to spend all his time off-world sneezing, he'd be ideal.

Well, damn.

John leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Why did things always have to be so fucking difficult? The law of averages said he was due to be cut a break—overdue, even—but apparently the law of averages didn't apply in the Pegasus galaxy. Which, honestly, didn't surprise him at all.

He was beginning to think that the only real solution was to figure out a way to get McKay to take back his resignation. It was pretty much the last thing he wanted to do, if only because McKay would take it as some kind of an admission that John was in the wrong. In the end, though, John had to admit that McKay was the best fit for the team, and pragmatism won out over pride. He tossed back the last swallow of coffee, grimacing at its lukewarm bitterness, and shoved his chair back from his desk. He probably ought to have a plan for getting McKay back, but plans never seemed to work out the way he intended; he had more success just winging it.

John had barely knocked on the door of McKay's quarters before it slid open to reveal McKay, looking only slightly less irritated than when he'd turned his back on John in the corridor and walked away.

"Well, it took you less time than I expected to figure out just how irreplaceable I am and come crawling back, cap in hand," McKay said, stepping back to let John pass. His expression turned a little smug as he continued, "It won't do any good; I've already drafted an email to Elizabeth."

The sheer arrogance of it should have pissed John off, should have made him turn around and walk away and to hell with McKay and his ego. Instead, he felt an inexplicable surge of affection, and he heard himself saying, "I do trust you, Rodney. I always have."

Apparently that wasn't what McKay was expecting, either, because he looked as surprised as John felt. His mouth opened, then closed without him saying a word.

John took advantage of the rare silence to forge ahead. "I don't want you to quit the team." To keep himself from feeling like a total pushover, he added, "I could probably replace you, but the point is that I don't _want_ to."

McKay ducked his head just a little, his gaze shifting from John's face to somewhere on the left wall of his quarters. "Yes, well, we do work together well, don't we?" he said with a half-smile.

~ * ~ * ~

  


**Frigidarium**  
The large cold pool in the _frigidarium_ is the final destination in the bathing process.

~

_The floor drops away from beneath the jumper, leaving it free to drift down into the gateroom exactly as it has dozens, or maybe hundreds of times before. The difference this time is the water that swirls around the front view port, making it hard for John to see out. The gateroom is empty, save for the encroaching ocean and a lone figure, standing at the control panel and working frantically._

_McKay._

_John orders the jumper's rear hatch open, but it stubbornly refuses to budge. The HUD remains as dark as the rest of the jumper's cabin, and the manual controls aren't responding, either. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see the water rising, pouring through the railings and eddying across the floor where McKay's standing, still working, even though John can see from his expression that he's terrified._

_Slamming his fist into the console, John swears at the jumper and at the Ancients who left them in this mess, then pushes out of his seat to try the manual hatch release. He tugs on the lever, but nothing happens, so he tries again. Nothing._

_Fuck._

_He makes it back to the front of the jumper just in time to see the force of the water sweep McKay off his feet and swallow him down._

John's breath was coming in gasps and his body was shaking and sheened with a cold sweat. He could still see the after-image of Rodney's face, eyes wide with terror and mouth a grim line, and the nightmare was so immediate, so _real_ that he barely managed to fumble on a pair of sweat pants with trembling hands and then he was running full-tilt toward Rodney's quarters.

The door opened and Rodney's eyes widened as he got a good look at John. "Major? Are you all right? What? Is there an emergency?"

John shook his head, the knot in his chest easing some at the sight of Rodney, looking tired and sleep-rumpled, but still alive and breathing. "No," he said. "No emergency, no problem, I just...." He reached out and put a hand on Rodney's shoulder, squeezing a little, feeling solid muscle under his hand, warm and real and _not dead_. "You're okay. You didn't drown."

The words didn't seem to reassure Rodney, because he said, "Maybe I should call Carson," and started to turn away, but John tightened his grip just a little, pulling him back. Rodney frowned, concern and confusion evident in his expression, and John suddenly wanted to brush away the lines on his forehead, wanted to kiss him until he understood the meaning underneath John's words.

Meaning that John himself hadn't even understood until this second. His heart was still pounding; it wasn't fear now, though, or at least not the same kind of fear as before, and aside from that he felt eerily calm for the level of epiphany. His thumb was rubbing circles along Rodney's collarbone, a small, intimate gesture that apparently wasn't lost on Rodney because John was watching his eyes and saw the exact instant when he got it, when they were both on the same page again.

"Oh." Rodney's eyes widened a little more and a faint flush crept up his cheeks.

"Yeah," John said, reaching out to cup Rodney's jaw, "oh."

> A Turkish bath—that marble paradise of sherbert and sodomy.  
> —Lord Byron


End file.
